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The women all agreed that cooking was better in their homelands where food was sacred. Leda said Kurdish women won't cook when they are stressed. They believe negative emotions ruin the food. The Kurds eat together slowly, talking for hours.

Ritu said, "Middle Easterners eat slowly and calmly. We don't talk about bad things at meals. They are peaceful times."

Leda noted the casual attitude Americans take toward food. She said, "With Americans eating is just for physical need." She was shocked to see us eat on the rim or while we were doing other things, such as driving or attending a lecture.

Nessima was amazed by vegetarians. Meat was very desirable in her country. She made a hand gesture near her brain to signal that she thought vegetarians were a little crazy. She told me, "They have never tasted my lamb curry."

All the women loved American buffets. Nessima oohed and aahed over the local Buffy's Buffet selection. Even Zahra had been taken there on her birthday. I remembered a New Yorker cartoon showing two pilgrims talking: "Actually the attraction wasn't freedom from religious persecution, but, rather, the all-you-can-eat buffet."

Ritu said, "Afghanis believe it is a sin to waste food." She was upset when her children made art with macaroni and uncooked pinto beans at school. She said, "I have many relatives who are hungry. It is disrespectful of the school to use food so foolishly."

At the mention of relatives, the room grew quiet. Leda looked at me. I asked gently if they remembered their assignment to bring pictures of their old homes. Leda brought out pictures of her house in Iraq. Then Nessima and Zahra showed pictures of their homes. All had nice houses with pretty gardens. As they passed these pictures around, all four women cried.

Nessima said, "Before the Taliban, Afghanistan was modern and happy. The streets were filled with neighbors talking. Now the streets are empty. Men are fearful they will be forced to fight for the Taliban. Women are prisoners in their own homes."

Zahra said, "Even young girls have to be completely covered to go outside."

"To escape, people walked or rode horses into Pakistan. Many died on the way," Nessima explained. "Children froze or fell off mountains."

Ritu spoke of her brother still in Afghanistan. "I don't even know if he is alive. It is impossible to exchange mail or call him. There are no airports. There is no consulate."

Leda said simply, "I, too, have seen a life of war. Every day I thought I might die. No matter how hard America is, I am grateful to be here. My children have a chance in this country."

I asked the women if they would like to do an art project. There is an old chestnut: Art turns agony into ecstasy. I didn't expect any ecstasy, but I did hope that drawing might help these women express feelings they couldn't express in their limited English.

They nodded in polite agreement. I pulled out paper and colored pencils. The women marveled at my supplies. I said, "Sometimes it is good to draw sad events, to take them out of your heart and place them on a piece of paper."

I said, "I know this may be painful for you. I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think it would help you. I want you all to draw a picture of fear."

Zahra hesitated for a while, but the others drew eagerly and unselfconsciously, like schoolchildren. I realized most had never had an art lesson or even an opportunity to draw. They had no one's art to compare with their own.

Ritu drew women in black clothes scurrying around the corners of buildings looking for food. They looked like crows, all in black, skinny, trying to find crumbs. She drew herself in the robes she had been forced to wear by the Taliban. She told me, "The first time I wore that heavy cloth over my face I had an asthma attack."

She continued, her eyes blazing with emotion, "The cloth was hot in summer and cold in winter. I couldn't wear my glasses with the eye veil and I was blind without them. I fell down many times."